Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? She begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”
((How do you respond?))
Thargrim ducks into the tattered tent, his heavy boots squelching against the damp floor. The scent of rotted wood and moss clings to his nostrils, but he barely flinches, his slate-gray eyes narrowing as they adjust to the flickering candlelight. His broad, muscular frame, clad in a dark leather tunic with iron plates, fills the cramped space, and his reddish-brown beard, braided with copper beads, glints faintly. At 4'6" and 180 pounds, he’s a solid presence, his scarred hands resting on the hilt of the axe at his belt. The old hag’s words catch him off guard, and his thick brows furrow as he studies her weathered face.
“Expected me, eh?” Thargrim’s voice rumbles like gravel, skeptical but curious. He shifts his weight, hesitating, then lowers himself onto the cushion with a grunt, his cloak pooling around him. “Name’s Thargrim, a dwarf who fled his home seekin’ peace and a life of farmin’. Left behind a troubled past, hopin’ to start anew with the land. I’ve heard whispers of the Thunderhammer, a relic I’d like to find for its history. This swamp’s no place for a dwarf, but if you know somethin’ about it, speak. What’s this ‘expectin’ me’ business?” His tone is gruff, but a spark of hope flickers in his gaze as he awaits her response.
